Pinkskin
by mandassina
Summary: Jon has never noticed that, ever since Shran lost the Kumari, there has been only one human he calls Pinkskin. Story is complete. There are four chapters. It should be posted within a week.
1. We Are Not All Pink

**Inspired by the 40 Snapshots series by Elise_Davidson at Archive of Our Own.** _I'm afraid I only read the Enterprise stories because that's my latest obsession and I'm not familiar with the other fandoms she wrote about. Although I'm relatively new to the fandom, I can tell Archer/Shran isn't really my cup-of-tea, but Elise_Davidson's stories are so good, I couldn't help myself. I read them all, in one sitting, I think, and they spawned this plot bunny._

 _So, this is a peculiar little thing. It was meant to be Archer/Shran, and it is, mostly, sort of, but all more or less from Trip's point of view – except for one tiny little interlude. I had a destination in mind when I started, but the whole thing's a bit disjointed and rambling, kind of like life, because I let the story decide how to get there. There really is a plot, but it's a mighty fine thread in some places._

 _This story takes place at exactly the same time as "These Are the Voyages," but I support the many worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics as applied to fan-fiction, so my world and TATV can happily co-exist and have almost exactly nothing in common except: 1._ Enterprise _and the crew_ , _2\. The impending signing of the Coalition Charter, 3. Shran's presence, and 4. Trip risks life and limb for his captain._

 _I have no legal claim on anything in the Star Trek Universe, except, perhaps, the inalienable right to try to be optimistic about humanity's future._

 _ **Pinkskin**_

 **Chapter One**

 _We Are Not All Pink_

"Commander Tucker!"

"General Shran?" Trip replied to the blonde-haired, blue-skinned alien on the viewscreen who had, against all odds, become their friend.

"Do not forget that you owe me a jug of your grandfather's special recipe," Shran teased. "We Andorians take our wagers just as seriously as our drinks. You do _not_ want to learn how we deal with those who fail to pay up on lost bets, and _I_ would hate to have to be the one to teach you."

"Not to worry, General," Trip assured him. "I've already contacted my daddy an' told him to start makin' up a batch."

"Good man," Shran grinned, then his gaze shifted on the viewscreen and it was clear he was addressing the captain.

"It's been a pleasure, as always, Archer. I am sure we'll be seeing each other again soon… _Pinkskin_ ," Shran bade them farewell, ending with his typical smirk and the familiar epithet that somehow, wasn't really an insult anymore, but was still loaded with meaning that often made Archer uneasy because he didn't quite understand it.

"General Shran!" he interjected before the Andorian could tell his communications officer to cut the transmission. When he got an inquisitive twitch of the antennae, he said, "I know you've met my Chief Communications Officer, Lieutenant Hoshi Sato," he said, indicating Hoshi at her station, "and my helmsman, Lieutenant Travis Mayweather."

"I have," Shran agreed.

"And I suspect that you have met other humans, if only on your visits to _Enterprise,_ who are not, as you say, _pink_ ," Archer continued, not noticing the _Oh, shit! What do we do now?_ looks his senior officers were exchanging behind his back as he stepped past the helm toward the viewscreen. Even T'Pol was getting into the act, giving Commander Tucker a most Un-Vulcan, bug-eyed stare. Only Lieutenant Commander Reed seemed to have decided how to respond. Making eye contact with each of his crewmates in turn, he gave the slightest negative shake of his head even as his fingers deftly sent the message to each of their consoles: **Reed, Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm S.:** _LEAVE IT ALONE!_

"Indeed, I have met a great many of them over the years now," Shran replied, actually grinning.

"Then why, if I may ask, do you continue to call us _Pinkskins_?" Archer asked.

Shran's antennae drooped and his grin evaporated.

Catching a glare from Hoshi, Malcolm rapidly hit **RESEND** several times.

 **Reed, Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm S.:** _LEAVE IT ALONE!_

 **Reed, Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm S.:** _LEAVE IT ALONE!_

 **Reed, Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm S.:** _LEAVE IT ALONE!_

 **Reed, Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm S.:** _LEAVE IT ALONE!_

 **Reed, Lt. Cmdr. Malcolm S.:** _LEAVE IT ALONE!_

Glancing at her screen, Hoshi looked back to Malcolm, squinting in annoyed frustration, and nodded.

Malcolm glanced down as a message appeared on his screen from **Sato, Lt. Hoshi:** _For now._

"I'll leave that for you to figure out… _Pinkskin_." The last word was spoken so softly, it was almost inaudible.

"But, Shran, I…" Whatever Archer was going to say died in his throat as the viewscreen went blank. Glancing around at his bridge crew, Archer said, "I…I'll be in my ready room if anyone needs me."

 _To be continued…_

 _Reviews feed the muse._


	2. Gym Gossip

_**Pinkskin**_

 **Chapter Two**

 _Gym Gossip_

"We've been friends for years," Hoshi grumbled as she spotted for Travis at the weight bench. "I've actually known him longer than Commander Tucker, and I've always loved him like a big brother. I just don't see how anyone so _clueless_ could ever have advanced to the rank of captain in Starfleet, let alone held the position for so long and become such a respected diplomat."

"Well I doubt…Starfleet was looking…for a pickup artist…for the captain…of their first…warp five ship," Travis grunted, finishing his set, adjusting the weights, and switching places with Hoshi. "Besides, if Shran hasn't said anything, how can you blame the captain for not knowing?"

"You _don't_ …have to be…a _ling_ uist…to read… _body_ language," Hoshi told him as she started her set of bench presses. "I _swear_ …when I saw…how _Shran's_ …antennae _drooped_ …I…"

"You did _nothing_ , Lieutenant," Malcom reminded, looming over her as he waited for Trip to adjust the weights on the other bench to suit him. "Which is what you will continue to do, or I am sure, _everyone_ will regret it."

"I a _greed_ …to do nothing… _for now_ , sir," Hoshi reminded him of the messages they exchanged on the bridge. "But if _he_ hurts…that _sweet_ man… _one_ more time…"

"Sweet?!" Travis blurted. "Shran?!"

"Once you look past all the bluster and posturing, yes, Shran is a very sweet man," Hoshi said, standing up while Travis adjusted the machine for her to do leg exercises. "You saw how he was with Jhamel after she destroyed the Romulan drone, and the tender little smile he still gets every time he talks about her."

"He was also very affectionate with his daughter and told her a bedtime story every night last time they stayed over on _Enterprise_ ," T'Pol added from the treadmill, where she was 'jogging' through a 10K in what would be a dead sprint for a human. "I believe that qualifies as 'sweet.'"

"Yes, it does!" Hoshi said, sitting on the now-tilted bench with her back straight and her legs elevated. "You _just…_ " she grunted as Travis released the weights for her do her leg presses, "…have to look…at the _per_ son…instead of the…per _son_ a."

Moving to stand at the head of Trip's bench, Malcolm noted the weight he had put on the bar, glanced at Hoshi, and said, "You can do better, Commander. I think you should add another two kilos to each end of the bar. You should at least be able to bench press more than Lieutenant Sato."

"Hey!" Hoshi objected.

"That wasn't meant as an insult," Malcolm said in a conciliatory tone. "You are an exceptionally strong, fit woman. To be worthy of his position, the commander should strive to be an exceptionally strong, fit man. Since men are genetically programmed to be stronger and more muscular than women, he _should_ be able to bench press more than you."

"Aw, Mal, I don't wanna get all bulky," Trip complained.

"Are _you_ …saying I'm… _bulky_?" Hoshi huffed.

"No, I, er…"

"He's making excuses to be lazy," Malcolm smirked affectionately at his partner. "Trust me, Commander, you have a long way to go before you reach 'bulky'…with one notable exception." The last he added in an undertone, and with his back to Hoshi and Travis so they wouldn't hear. He quite enjoyed making his partner blush, but didn't actually like to embarrass him. When he noticed T'Pol arching a brow, he silently cursed her Vulcan hearing, but knew she would never say anything.

"I thought you started lifting to get stronger," he continued as Trip turned a lovely shade of pink. "If you just want to maintain your girlish figure, perhaps you should spend more time on the treadmill with Commander T'Pol."

Groaning in frustration while Hoshi giggled at Malcolm's teasing about the treadmill, Trip assented. "Fine! Whatever. Adjust the weights to suit yourself." While he waited for Malcolm to finish tinkering, he sat up to face Hoshi so he could look her in the eye when he spoke to her.

"Trust me, Hosh, the last thing you wanna do is talk to the cap'n 'bout this," he said. "If he doesn't figure it out for himself, he'll never believe it's possible. He's kinda stubborn like that. He thinks he's so sensitive an' in-touch that he can't accept anyone else would ever be able to know somethin' about him that he hasn't already realized himself."

" _I_ think… _you_ should… _be_ the one…to _talk_ to…him," Hoshi told Trip.

"I was already plannin' to, darlin'," Trip said. " _If'n_ the cap'n brings it up, but even then, don't expect me to tell him what we all can see plain as the nose on his face. The one thing I know about match-makin' is that the matchmaker gets none of the credit when things go well an' all of the blame when they don't."

"But you _will_ …try to _make_ …him realize?" Hoshi tried to ask, although she was getting out of breath.

"I'll see what I can do," Trip agreed.

Malcolm cleared his throat rather loudly as the captain entered the gym. "Commander, if you don't finish your set, I can't begin mine."

Trip groaned, Hoshi chuckled, and the senior staff finished their respective workouts with more concentration and less conversation than when they started.

 _To be continued…_

 _Reviews feed the muse._


	3. Jupiter Station Mess Hall Stew

_**Pinkskin**_

 **Chapter Three**

 _Jupiter Station Mess Hall Stew_

"Commander Tucker!" Trip heard a voice call as he came off the end of the line with his tray full of lunch at the Jupiter Station mess hall. Since they had returned to earth for the signing of the Coalition Mutual Defense Treaty, Fleet Operations had ordered _Enterprise_ into spacedock to give her a little tune-up and a few upgrades. There were officers from about a dozen Starfleet ships here as well as several freighter crews on leave between cargo runs and a handful of alien vessels arriving early for the ceremony, so it took him a moment to find the source of the call. When he did, he was a bit surprised to see his captain waving him over.

Trip nodded in his direction to let him know he'd seen him and then stopped at the drinks dispenser for a tall, cold glass of milk. As he turned away from the machine, he spied Hoshi, Travis, and Malcolm eyeing him intently, and threw them a quick wink to let them know he hadn't forgotten Hoshi's request.

"Decided to get some _fresh_ , recycled air, didja, Cap'n?" he asked as he joined his friend at his table.

"Well, I'm caught up on reports for now, and with _Enterprise_ crawling withrepair and maintenance crews, a man can't find any peace, so I thought I'd come onto the station and see what's up," Archer said. "What about you? Going down to earth to visit any of the Tucker tribe?"

"I gotta take care of some business at 'Fleet HQ, first, but when that's finished, I'll be meetin' Malcolm at the Jackson Air an' Spaceport to see my folks," Trip said. "Then we're off to London to visit Maddie. We'll avoid the long atmospheric flight to Malaysia by comin' back to _Enterprise_ to go down to the signin' ceremony with the command staff, then we return to the ship, an' take a shuttle to the Kuala Lumpur Spaceport for a weekend with his parents."

"I'm guessing Malcolm planned the itinerary?" Jon smirked.

"He's got it down to the minute," Trip said with a grin.

"And you actually go with him to visit his parents?"

"Believe it or not, they're very good hosts," Trip said, "an' I think the old man finally figured out he couldn't push Malcolm around anymore when he caught us makin' out in the garden. Or maybe it was when he caught Malcolm comin' out of my room in nothin' but his boxers."

Archer grimaced. "Way too much information, Trip."

"Well, you asked," Trip replied with a mischievous grin. "Really, though, far as I can tell, the admiral has mellowed out a good bit since the first time I met him. He an' Malcolm seem to get along all right, an' I've even heard him say a few complimentary things about me over the last couple years."

"Must be that Tucker charm," Jon teased.

"Malcolm tries tellin' me that, too," Trip said, "I think it's just that the old man is, well, gettin' old, an' he's finally realized that havin' Malcolm in his life is more important to him than makin' Malcolm do what he wants. I have to give Malcolm a lot of credit, too, though. I don't know that I'd be that forgivin' an' willin' to reconcile. Jon, if it wasn't a breach of confidence, I could tell you stories about things that bastard did to Malcolm that would curl your hair an' turn your stomach."

"That's probably why he is willing to reconcile," Archer noted. "You and I were lucky, Trip, when it comes to parents, we both won the lottery."

"Yeah, an' Malcolm got the wrong end of a pooper-scooper," Trip snorted. "That's why I just nod an' smile when the old man pisses me off. Malcolm wants to be friends with his dad the way I am with mine, an' if he's willin' to work for it, I'm not gonna spoil it for him by poppin' off."

"Wouldn't change anything if you did, would it?" Archer asked.

"Not for the better," Trip agreed.

"So, what 'business' do you have at HQ?" Jon asked.

"Would you believe Admiral Gardener had me consultin' with a text book company?" Trip grinned. "They're writin' the engineerin' manuals for the next generation of starships already, an' they _said_ theywanted my input."

"Really?" Archer was impressed. "That's quite a feather in your cap."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't very long before I was regrettin' agreein' to it," Trip grumbled. "When I tell you they 'said' they wanted my input, that's about as far as it went."

"Oh?"

Trip nodded. "'Bout two hours into the meetin', we take a break," he said. "Just makin' conversation, this ivory tower intellectual…jackass…looks twenty-five, talks like he's eighteen, acts like he's twelve, asks me where I went to school."

"Oh, boy," Archer breathed, knowing what was coming.

"Yeah, you know me, I told him, 'J.R. Arnold High School, Panama City, Florida.' He just kinda laughed an' said, 'No, really.' An' I just kinda grinned back at him an' said, 'Yeah, really. Go Marlins!' Then I go on to explain to him that I joined Starfleet right outta high school 'cause Momma an' Daddy didn't have the resources to send me off to college."

Trip stopped talking as if that was the end of the story and poked uncertainly at his sandwich.

"Is that the grilled ham, gruyere, and apple?" Archer asked.

"Yeah," Trip told him. "I thought I'd try somethin' different, but I'm not too sure about fresh fruit on a grilled ham 'n' cheese sandwich."

"You know, they bring the sourdough bread in fresh from San Francisco every day."

"Yeah?" Trip was still skeptical.

"Tell you what, you try it and don't like it, I'll trade you my lunch."

Trip laughed. "What? Are we back in grade school?"

"Or maybe just J.R. Arnold High," Archer offered.

Trip sighed. "Yeah. Go Marlins," he said without enthusiasm. "That the pumpkin ravioli?" Archer nodded and Trip eyed his sandwich and muttered, "Guess it's six of one, half-dozen of the other," before he took a bite. Chewing thoughtfully, he peeled back a corner of the bread to look at the filling again and said, "This is pretty good!"

Archer smiled and said, "I thought you might like it, so, the textbook publisher…"

"Yeah, well, we went back to our meetin' an' it was like I was suddenly a second-class citizen," Trip said. "I could barely get a word in edgewise, an' when I did manage to fill a few seconds of silence, that academic snob would cut me off, usually with some reference to some research he'd done in simulation studies that supposedly proved the _reality_ I'd experienced was wrong.

"When I tried to explain that if the variables he input got those outputs, his simulator needed reprogrammin', he insisted that, with my lack of a _foundational scientific education_ I couldn't possibly understand.

"'Oh, it's all well an' good to have a practical understandin' of the workin's of a basic warp engine, Commander Tucker, an' I'm sure your experience will serve you well as your career winds down,' said the guy who couldn't believe I have only a high school diploma. 'But these new, faster engines run a variably-compressed plasma stream into the injectors. The boys runnin' _these_ engines are gonna have to have a sound academic understandin' of the warp theory behind their operations if they don't wanna blow themselves outta the sky. I wouldn't be surprised if Starfleet sent you back for retrainin' before postin' you to one of their new ships.'"

"Ouch!" Archer chuckled. "And you said…?"

Trip had the grace to look ashamed. "Cap'n, you don't wanna know."

"And saying that makes me think maybe I need to, just in case Admiral Gardner mentions it."

"You'll just be disappointed in me," Trip insisted.

"Trip, tell me. I can make it an order," Archer hated pulling rank, but he really was concerned now. The last thing he needed was to be caught flat-footed if Gardner called roaring about what Trip might have said or done.

Trip sighed heavily and said, "Keep in mind, Cap'n, he was a smug little…His colleagues were embarrassed by him an' for him an'…Hell, Cap'n, he just _really_ pissed me off!

"I told him, 'First of all, they'd be blowin' themselves _to space dust_ , not 'outta the sky.' The sky, on earth, a blue firmament with puffy white clouds, is a phenomenon created by the prismatic effect of water droplets in the atmosphere, an' the 'Fleet's starships ain't designed for atmospheric travel.'"

Archer chuckled. He knew easy-going Trip Tucker could pick nits like a primary school nurse during a lice infestation when it suited him. The fifteen second lecture on the sky was just a wind up for a fast ball so high and tight it would take the academic idiot's head clean off if he didn't back down.

"I also suggested that he needed to get his head out of his simulator an' find out who the hell reverse-engineered the Andorian's variable compression nozzle to retrofit it to the NX engine. Then I said to the rest of 'em, 'Now, I know y'all don't approve of his intellectual elitism, but one of y'all needs to take him out to the woodshed an' teach him a little respect for the men an' women who have a _practical understandin' of the workin's of a basic warp engine_ before our experience kicks his education's ass, which that diploma he's so proud of isn't even good for wipin' as long as he insists his simulations are more accurate than reality. There's not an engineer in the 'Fleet wouldn't sooner put him out an airlock than follow his crazy-assed formulas an' blow his ship to _space dust_.'"

Archer stared in openmouthed shock for a full five seconds, and Trip stared back at him with a stubbornly set jaw. HHH

"Intellectual elitism?" the captain finally laughed.

Trip laughed, back at him, and sat back in his chair, relieved that his captain hadn't taken exception to his plain-spoken rant. "Yeah, that got their attention, too," he grinned. "I don't think they expected an ignorant redneck like me to have those words in my vocabulary.

"At any rate, I don't think it'll blow back on you, Jon. I already called Admiral Gardner an' told him exactly what happened. Includin' my little speech."

"Oh?" for a moment, Archer was a little surprised. Then he realized that, between the Xindi and Terra Prime and the Romulans, they'd all grown up a lot. Six or seven years ago, Trip would have left it to his captain to run interference for him with Command, and then taken his punishment graciously, once it was decided. Now, the always honorable Southern Gentleman had matured into the kind of officer who would step up and own his mistakes before anyone else had to face them. "And what did the admiral have to say?"

"Would you believe he as much as admitted to settin' me up?" Trip grumbled darkly.

"You're kidding!"

"Nope! Said he wished I'd been a little more 'diplomatic,' but he was glad I didn't pull any punches with 'em," Trip said. "Seems Starfleet is already locked into a contract with this publisher, so all they can do is make the best of a bad situation. He's hopin' my tellin' 'em off will, an' I quote, 'encourage them to consider a little more carefully the possibility that experience may very well be the better teacher,' an' convince them to kick Mr. Ivy League's ass off the team.

"Y'know it doesn't really bother me when people put their noses up at my lack of a degree," Trip added, just in case his friend didn't really understand the source of his irritation. "I know my skills, an' the only records I need to prove 'em are my Starfleet personnel file an' my Chief Engineer's Log. What _pisses_ me off is when they're perfectly okay with the possibility that the kids comin' up through Starfleet who are gonna be studyin' their texts just might be gettin' themselves killed an' blowin' up their ships 'cause some jackass with a degree is wrong an' can't take correction from someone with just a _practical understandin' of the workin's of a basic warp engine_."

"Maybe what you need to do, Trip, is volunteer," Archer suggested.

"Huh?"

Archer nodded. "You know, I haven't much use for Admiral Gardner, but he was an NX test pilot, and he knows just as well as you and I do, that the math can lie when you don't have all the variables right. He also knows, despite any friction he may have with us over the fact that he's spent the last few years flying a desk since we got _Enterprise_ , that you, better than any man alive right now, understand those variables. I think, not that you asked my advice…"

"You got that right," Trip grumbled.

"…you should volunteer to proof read the manuscript when the book is done."

"What?!" Trip gasped in shock. "Maybe if they made a movie of it," he laughed.

"Look, Trip, it's like you said, kids are going to get killed if that book isn't right," Archer pointed out gravely. "You have the chance, some would argue the responsibility, to fix it. Can your conscience live with not trying?"

Trip's smirk turned into a full-on grin.

"What?"

"I'm disappointed, Jon," he said.

"What do you mean?"  
"I thought you'd go for somethin' more creative than a guilt trip," the engineer said. "Maybe somethin' like tellin' me I could show 'em all that I'm just as good as any of them an' their fancy degrees."

"You already volunteered to proof read the book," Archer realized, with a grin to match his friend's.

Trip nodded. "I just wanted to see how you'd try to convince me if I hadn't."

"So, is Gardener going to use you?" Archer asked. "If not I could make some calls…"

"Oh, he's _usin'_ me all right," Trip groaned. "I'd no sooner made the offer than he drafted me to be in charge of the whole damn Starfleet side of the project! I won't have to leave _Enterprise_ , but I'll be expected to attend monthly video conferences, maybe weekly or more, toward the end of the project. An' he expects me to make time to 'meet my team' before _Enterprise_ leaves spacedock again. But you know what the worst part is?"

"What's that?" Archer nearly choked on the words. He could barely hide his amusement at the engineer's rant.

"At the end of the call, he tells me, 'Nothin' goes to print without your approval, Commander. Glad to have you aboard'."

Archer could stifle his laughter no more. Trip's impersonation of the grumpy admiral was too perfect. "I don't see why you're upset!" he said. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? The chance to make sure it's right."

"Yeah, but, hell, Jon! If my conscience couldn't let me keep my damned mouth shut, how do you think I'm gonna live with it if I miss a decimal point or somethin' in an equation an' some kid dies because of it?" Trip almost whined.

"Well, there's a simple solution to that," Jon insisted. "Don't screw up."

"Easy for you to say," Trip groused.

"I know it's not as easy as it sounds, Trip, but I know you can do it," the captain insisted encouragingly. "I've seen you do it for years now, under some of the toughest circumstances imaginable. You're a brilliant engineer. You _can_ do this, degree or no degree. And you won't be alone. Besides the people Gardner gives you, you'll have smart people on _Enterprise_ to help, T'Pol and Malcolm, Hess and Rostov. Use them. I have great faith in you, Commander. I'm sure you'll do us all proud."

Trip made a regretful face, but nodded to his captain, then, nearly whining once again, he said, "I know it's early, but I need a drink. When's Shran gettin' here?"

As changes of subject went, it was hardly subtle, but it served his purpose, and now that he'd cast Jon in the big brother role by moaning about the textbook project for a little while, and letting Jon advise him, he'd never be suspected of deviousness or having an ulterior motive, at least not right away.

"You know, the station does have a bar," Archer told him. "I think it opens at one."

"Well, yeah, Jon, but Shran always has better booze, an' he's better company than the station bartender," Trip declared.

"I can't argue with you about his taste in drinks," Archer admitted, "but better company? You really think so?"

"Sure!" Trip said enthusiastically. "He likes a good joke, he's got a ton of stories appropriate for any audience, he knows some pretty good drinkin' songs an' games, he can quote poetry – not just dirty limericks, Jon, but _real_ poems, some of 'em from Earth poets – an' most important, he can tell when a guy just need to take the edge off versus when he needs to get thoroughly tore up from the floor up. Makes a pretty good wingman, too."

Archer looked at him askance. "Just how many times have you been out drinking with Shran?"

Trip gave a sly grin. "Probably a few more than you'd approve," he said. Truth was, he could count on one hand the number of times he'd been 'out' drinking with the Andorian. Usually they'd get quietly smashed sipping top-shelf spirits together in Trip's quarters or Malcolm's when Shran came to visit on _Enterprise_ , but Archer didn't need to know that. "Enough to know he's not gonna let me get into more trouble than he can get me out of, but he has let me get thrown out of a couple of Andorian bars."

Perplexed but amused, Archer said, "Commander Tucker, I thought I knew you!"

"Ah, you know me, Jon," Trip assured him. "An' you know I like to have fun."

"And Shran is fun?"

"Hell, Jon, didn't I just tell you he was?"

"You don't find him a bit…offensive?"

"Offensive? How? I mean, if you ask me, Tellarites are offensive, but we accept that as part of their culture. When it comes to offensive, Shran's got nothin' on them."

Archer huffed a quiet laugh. "I won't deny the Tellarites complain and criticize like it's their job," he said, "but they're usually not racist."  
"Racist? Jon! Are you callin' Shran a bigot?"

"I-I don't know," Jon stammered, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. "Kind of, maybe…yeah? What would you call someone who only ever refers to us by the color of our skin, _and_ disregards the fact that the slur he chooses discounts a vast majority of the population?"

"Wait a minute. You think Shran's a racist 'cause he calls you _Pinkskin_?" Trip laughed, hoping he'd finally found a way to give his friend a nudge in the right direction.

"If it was just me, that would be a different matter," Jon insisted, "but to reduce the whole human race to…"

"It _is_ just you, Jon," Trip told him, hoping he wasn't overdoing it with his manufactured tone of disbelief. " _Just_ you."

"What do you mean?" Jon asked. "Last time we talked to him…"

"Last time we talked to him, he called me Commander Tucker an' reminded me that I owed him a jug of my granddaddy's moonshine," Trip interrupted. "Dependin' on the situation an' how much he's had to drink, he's also called me Mister Tucker, Charles, Trip, an' the last time he lost a bet to me, I think it was some Andorian cuss word 'cause the UT just bleeped him.

"An' for the record, he never discounted the three-fourths of the human race that isn't pink," Trip continued, not letting Jon get a word in. "But the one time he called Travis 'brownskin', Malcolm had to order him over to the bar for another drink to keep him from bustin' Shran in the mouth. Soon as Hoshi an' I explained to Shran the historical role of skin color in human race relations, he gave Travis a sincere apology, bought him another drink, an' got us all drunk enough to laugh at some stupid-assed _y'all look alike to me anyway_ joke. Now, he calls us all by name. _Pinkskin_ is a pet name he reserves just for _you_."

"A pet name?"

"Yeah, kinda like how Malcolm lets me call him Mal, but nobody else does," Trip explained.

"Yeah, but you and Malcolm are… Trip! Are you saying Shran is…?"

"Ohhh, nooo!" Trip cut him off, "I ain't sayin' nothin', 'cause I don't know. I know nothin'. Nothin'!"

It was a lie, Shran had spent the last evening of his latest visit to Enterprise drinking himself into a stupor and passing out on Trip's floor because, 'No matter what I do, he'll never see me as anything more than a fellow officer, or a _friend,_ ' the word _friend_ having been said in a tone akin to disgust.

"An' even if I did know, I wouldn't say," the engineer added for good measure. "I wouldn't touch that mess with a ten-meter pole. It's nothin' but six different kinds of _baaad_ radiation."

Malcolm and Trip had poured the general into the bed, and then Trip had collected a change of clothes and his shaving kit and bunked with Malcolm for the night.

"Maybe it's more like how Malcolm lets me get away with callin' him an uptight Brit," Trip amended, knowing it was nothing of the sort. He'd give his friend a heading, but Jon would have to plot his own course. There was no way he was playing matchmaker for his captain.

"That _would_ make more sense," Jon decided. "I mean, the man _is_ married."

"You mean bonded," Trip corrected. "Remember, Andorians do it as a foursome."

"Yeah, same difference," Archer said.

"Not really," Trip shot back. "We've met a lot of species over the past several years. Most of 'em have some kind of bondin' ceremony, but not many of 'em are either life-long or exclusive."

As Shran had explained to Trip and Malcolm over a bottle of Malcolm's Cardhu eighteen-year-old single malt Scotch, Andorians usually joined a _sheltreth_ for reproductive purposes only. The ceremony and reception afterwards were a formalizing and celebration of a successful contract negotiation and had little to do with love, romance, or enduring passion. While the members of a family generally developed respect and some degree of affection for one another, the genuine adoration Shran and Jhamel felt for one another was both unusual and unexpected in a formal family bond. Normally, each member of the _sheltreth_ would be allowed, even expected, to have a lover outside of the group. As a matter of honor, Shran had sought permission from each of his bond-mates prior to pursuing an alien paramour.

"So, what are you saying?" Jon asked. "You think Shran's looking for a little 'strange' on the side?"

"All I'm sayin', Jon…sir…Cap'n," Trip stumbled over the right name to call his friend and superior officer because what he was about to say would hit hard on so many levels, "All I'm sayin' is, if you're down on Shran 'cause his callin' you _Pinkskin_ makes you think he's a bigot an' a racist, then respectfully, Cap'n Archer, sir, you need to check yourself, 'cause the only negativity in that name is comin' from you."

"But if he doesn't have a thing for me…"

"He likes you, Jon," Trip said in exasperation. "That's all. He cares for you. That's what friends do, an' Lord knows, we put up with you, too, sometimes!"

Archer chuckled, "I suppose you do," he agreed. He understood Trip's affection and teasing. The man was open and warm with just about everybody. It was inherent to his nature. But Shran…

"If he likes me, why does he keep antagonizing me with a nickname he knows I hate?" Jon asked.

"I suppose for the same reason I pick on Malcolm," Trip said, polishing off the last of his sandwich and washing it down with the last of his milk. "'Cause it's fun gettin' a rise outta ya, an' he knows _Pinkskin_ will do it every time!" Standing up, he continued, "Now, I'm off to arrange transport to 'Fleet headquarters to meet my 'team' for this damned textbook project. If you wanna know anythin' more about Shran's intentions towards you, I guess you'll just have to talk to him when he gets here. If you do see him, wouldja mind lettin' him know I haven't forgot my granddaddy's moonshine?"

"Mmm? Oh, sure," Jon said vaguely, clearly lost in thought.

"Jon?"

"Hmm?"

"Ravioli's gettin' cold."

"Yeah," Archer said distractedly, and stabbed one of them with his fork.

Trip just grinned and shook his head as he walked away. Stopping by the table where Malcolm, Hoshi, and Travis had utterly failed to be discreet in their observations and only went unnoticed because Archer sat with his back to them, he said, "I ain't guaranteein' nothin', but I set him to stewin' about Shran. Whether he eventually figures it out or just ends up with soup is anybody's guess. If y'all decide to meddle further, just leave my name out of it."

"Docking clamps are engaged, _Weytahn_ ," said the technician in charge of the procedure. "Welcome to Jupiter station! I have a message for you, General Shran, from Captain Archer of the _Enterprise._ "

"You do? Well, let's hear it," Shran requested cheerfully. He was looking forward to seeing his Pinkskin again. Even if things were going nowhere, he still enjoyed Archer's company.

"Actually, it's a question, sir," the technician said. "I'm not sure it makes any sense, but Captain Archer wants to know, 'Have you ever heard of a Smurf?'"

 _To be continued…_

 _Reviews feed the muse._


	4. A Message and a Bottle

_**Pinkskin**_

 **Chapter Four**

 _A Message and a Bottle_

Trip laughed and shook his head as he came out of the baggage claim area to find a slight, dark-haired man with changeable grey eyes holding a bunch of balloons in _Enterprise_ blue and a sheet of bright red poster board in the shape of a heart decorated with sequins and glitter and edged with white paper lace that loudly proclaimed in bold, sparkly block text, _COMMANDAH TUCKAH, your husband misses you!_ Malcolm was almost unbearably sexy in a pair of black linen trousers, belted at the waist to accentuate his trim figure, and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons open to expose his amazingly gorgeous forearms and slender neck. Far from being at odds with each other, Trip found the sexy look and silly greeting complemented each other perfectly. When he reached Malcolm to receive a warm embrace and a tender-turned scorching kiss, he knew he had scored a trifecta. In the sixty seconds it had taken him to walk from the baggage claim to the exit, he had been the beneficiary of the three most intriguing aspects of Malcolm's personality – silly, sexy, and sensual – all of which the man in question reserved almost exclusively for him.

"Lookin' like that an' greetin' me the way you just did, Mal, I almost hope you got us a room in town for the night," he murmured.

"Sorry, love, no." Malcolm was disappointingly all business as he exchanged the sign and balloons for Trip's duffel and suitcase. Knowing the briefcase might contain some classified Starfleet documents, he let his partner keep that. "But your father did make a point of telling me he soundproofed the loft."

Trip groaned and turned pink with embarrassment at the memory, more than a year old. On their last visit, he and Malcolm had found they had the house to themselves on a Sunday afternoon while the other members of the Tucker clan were out and about. Apparently, they had been too involved with their amorous activities to hear the rest of the family coming back from their various forays. They'd not come down until after four, only to be greeted by a herd of giggling children and embarrassed looks, ribald comments, and bawdy jokes from the adults.

"I'm tellin' you right now, Mal," he grumbled, "if they're gonna keep teasin' us about that…"

"I don't think that will be a problem, love," Malcolm interrupted, nudging Trip to the right toward their rental car. "Your father also told me quite sincerely that the loft is meant to be our home on earth until we decide to settle down and buy a house, and that we should feel free to do there anything we would do in a home of our own."

"That's easy enough for him to say," Trip grumbled. "He's never had to sit through dinner with twenty Tuckers who'd just spent the afternoon listenin' to him yowlin' like an ally cat in heat all afternoon!"

"You know," Malcolm said with a smirk, popping the trunk and loading Trip's luggage as he spoke, "I find it positively uncanny and absolutely delightful how well your father seems to know you. He said, when, not if, _when,_ you objected to the idea that we'd ever have sufficient privacy to, as he put it, 'do what happy couples do,' I was to ask you how often you went camping or had movie marathons in the family room."

"He what?"

"He said I should ask you…."

"Yeah, I heard you!" Trip said with a grin, and sat on the edge of the open trunk looking gobsmacked. "Sonofabitch!" he gasped in surprise and then started laughing. "That horny old billy goat!"

"Trip!" Malcolm sounded half scandalized.

"Mal, I don't think you understand!" he giggled. "We must've slept downstairs or in the yard three, four nights a week! More often, when the weather was hot. Daddy _said_ it was 'cause we didn't have A/C in our bedrooms! You just told me my parents were goin' at it like bunny rabbits the entire time I was growin' up!"

"Well, you are the eldest of six children…" Malcolm reminded him, blushing to hear his lover talk about the sexual habits of his _de facto_ mother- and father-in-law so freely.

"Ohhh, man, y'know what else?"

"Hmmm?" Malcolm wondered if it was healthy for his partner to be so amused rather than repulsed by the frequency of his parents' assignations. He had always been under the impression that one was supposed to be quite put off by the idea of one's parents being sexually active, but then that idea had come mostly from popular culture, which was hardly a model for healthy family and sexual relations. Add to that his own repressed upbringing, and an open, freely-expressive family like the Tuckers could easily seem as alien to him as some of the cultures he'd experienced light-years away.

"They were usin' me as a babysitter while they were heatin' things up in the only bedroom with an air conditioner," Trip chuckled. "I'm _never_ gonna let them live this down."

Malcolm was disturbed that his lover would seek to taunt his parents about their libidinous behavior so many years after the fact. It was disrespectful and somehow vaguely creepy. After their experience last year, he'd have thought Trip would be more respectful their privacy. Still, years of acquaintance with Trip's sometimes insensitive idea of humor had taught him that direct criticism was probably the worst tack to take. Trip would either realize immediately that he was in the wrong and be so thoroughly ashamed of himself that Malcolm would feel guilty for having chastised him, no matter how mildly; or he would insist it was harmless teasing, 'all in good fun', and dig in his heels, usually hurting the victim of his jibes and Malcolm and himself all the more until he finally understood why the thing he was doing was unacceptable. _Then,_ he would realize he'd been insensitive, leading to the same damaging shame and guilt. Usually, Malcolm had found, it was easier to distract him, and then talk to him when the joke was less immediate, helping him to see that it wasn't so funny from the other side.

"You know, I _do_ hope you realize how extraordinarily good your parents have been to us," he said. "I know my mother and father are so formally repressed that they make even the Victorians look positively licentious, but I get the impression that most of our colleagues, when they go home now, get little more than clean sheets, guest towels, and a family dinner, as if they did nothing more than work out of town and pop by every once in a while. In addition to providing us with our own private apartment, your parents have literally killed the fatted calf for us, more than once."

Trip smiled at the Biblical reference. When they'd moved to Mississippi, his parents had bought a small dairy farm, complete with cows, chickens, ducks, pigs, catfish in the pond, and a large kitchen garden. It wasn't a big spread, really, just a hobby farm for two still very active retirees, but it produced more than enough to keep his parents and siblings, and the nearest neighbors supplied with butter, milk, eggs, and fresh vegetables with the occasional pork loin, roasting chicken, or pack of T-bones thrown in, when it was time to butcher something, or filleted fish when Trip's dad had a yen to go fishing. To keep producing milk, the cows had to breed once a year, and his dad had started building a small beef herd with the young steers.

Charlie and Elaine Tucker hosted a family reunion for more than a hundred Tuckers and kin every year, six generations of them, from 100-and-some-year-old Auntie Mae, who was his dad's great aunt, to the youngest grandbabies of Trip's eldest cousins. It had only been dumb luck that their first visit home as a couple had coincided with the big party, and literally everybody had showed up to welcolm the newest adoptee into the clan. Seeing the 410-kilo steer carcass spinning on a giant roasting rack welded to a steel beam spit over mesquite coals in the barbecue pit had impressed Malcolm almost as much as the generations of Tuckers descending upon the farm like the Mongol hordes of the 13th Century had frightened him. Recognizing his reserved nature, Charlie and Elaine had been very careful to ease Malcolm into two-day event. They started by asking him and Trip to do certain chores for them, like peeling a whole crate of potatoes in the kitchen or mixing a 20-liter bucket of basting sauce on the back porch. The plan was to get them involved in something that didn't strictly require two people but wouldn't be overstaffed with three or four. Invariably one or two of the other Tuckers would volunteer to help, giving Malcolm a chance to meet his newly extended family a few at a time.

The strategy had clearly worked. Gradually, the shy man, who had started the weekend hiding in the loft looking for excuses to leave early for Malaysia, then followed Trip around like a timid shadow, finally loosened up enough to actually talk and even joke with people. But it wasn't until Charlie, claiming to have had a bit too much of his daddy's moonshine to be climbing a ladder after dark, had taken Malcolm's beer gently from his hand, replaced it with the handle of the new cotton fiber string-mop they'd bought for basting the steer, and asked him to 'Git on up there an' wet that beast down, wouldja, son?' that Malcolm had really felt like one of the family. He'd spent the rest of the night taking turns with the other Tucker men basting the steer and sleeping under a pile of old quilts on the porch swing or chaise lounge. By the next morning, he was happy to go off with Trip's brother Bert and Bert's husband Miguel to get drinks, ice, and chips, or as Malcolm called them, 'crisps', for the party while Trip stayed behind to help his sisters corral the kids for a family soft-ball game.

Trip smiled at the memory of Malcolm, giddy as a child standing on that ladder, eyes aglow as much from pleasure as from the light off the coals in the pit and with a grin to rival Phlox's, as he'd followed Charlie's instructions to dip the mop in the basting liquid and slop it over the entire massive slab of meat as Trip slowly cranked the handle that turned the spit. It was far and away one of his favorite memories, and he was endlessly grateful to his parents for all the consideration they had shown his nervous, anxious partner on that first visit home.

"Believe me, Malcolm, I appreciate everythin' they do for us," he finally said, getting out of the way so Malcolm could close the trunk, "probably more than you know. Matter of fact, I was thinkin' we should get them some kinda thank-you gift before we leave, this time."

"I think that's a lovely idea!" Malcolm agreed. "We should pay attention and see if there's something nice they might want or need, compare notes a day or two before we leave, and go into town and get it so we can give it to them ourselves instead of just having it delivered."

"Works for me," Trip said, as he came up to the passenger side of the car. It had been agreed without discussion that Malcolm would drive them to the Tucker farm as Trip, lulled by the sound of the road and the warmth of the sun, would probably doze off within a half an hour of hitting the highway. It was one of the ironies of faster-than-light space travel that only a seasoned traveler could appreciate. Trip had risen at 02:00 so he could check in by 04:00 and guarantee his seat on the six-hour long, 3,200 kilometer, 06:00 atmospheric flight from San Francisco to Jackson, via Houston, while Malcolm had been able to lie in until 09:00, enjoy a leisurely breakfast in the Jupiter Station cafeteria, and stroll into the passenger service launch bay at 10:30 for the forty-minute, 588 _million_ kilometer trip to the Jackson Spaceport, arrive at 11:10, rent a car, drive the 1.2 kilometers to the airport end of the terminal, and still arrive in time to buy balloons and make that ridiculously sparkly greeting for his lover.

"Speaking of deliveries," Malcolm mentioned as he pressed the button that unlocked the car doors, "were you expecting anything from Shran?"

"Other than another warnin' about makin' sure I paid that debt of moonshine I owe him? No," Trip said, as he buckled his safety belt. "Why do you ask?"

Reaching down behind the driver's seat, Malcolm pulled out a package that had been wrapped in silver paper. "Because he had something delivered to _Enterprise_ for you, by courier."

Trip took the package and felt it slosh suspiciously in his hands. He chuckled. "It's another liquor he wants me to try."

As Malcolm climbed into the car and buckled up, Trip tore off the paper and opened the box inside. Malcolm was just pulling away from the curb, and hit the brakes when he heard Trip's gasp.

"Holy _shit_ , Mal!" he breathed in awe. "It's a bottle of Weytahn '55. Do you have any _idea_ what this cost him? What it _means_ to him?"

"I remember him telling us about how things were going for his people there after that cease-fire Captain Archer helped negotiate," Malcolm said. "He was so proud, he was almost in tears."

The '55 wasn't a vintage like with wine, but the name of the Weytahn distillery's top-shelf spirit, chosen for the year the distiller went into production. It wasn't a typical Andorian ale, but a premium liquor, sourcing the finest ingredients and manufactured with a proprietary distilling process that gave it a paler shade of blue than the usual variations of the beverage. There were other brands in the Weytahn family, and the _Enterprise_ officers had sampled several of them, thanks to Shran's hospitality over the years, but he'd only ever talked wistfully about the '55, saying he'd sampled it once at a diplomatic function and didn't have words to tell them how special it was. They'd both always suspected he romanticized it because of his personal involvement with negotiating the treaty that allowed his people to live freely on the world they'd colonized, but they also knew that the Andorian's sentimentality also made it all the more precious to him because of that.

"Y'know, Shran told me the distillery actually numbered the bottles their first year in production." The liquid flashed like quicksilver in the light as Trip lifted the bottle from its nest of white tissue paper. He whistled softly as he turned the bottle over. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but…is that a number ten in Andorian script?"

Malcolm leaned over and looked. "Yes, it is," he confirmed. "I imagine this is something like having a decent bottle of Chateau Lafite to a wine collector."

"Well, what the hell would possess him to send me somethin' like this?" Trip wondered.

"I don't know," Malcolm said. "Is there a card?"

Trip rooted in the box, and pulled out a plain envelope, heavy, cream colored, real paper, like people still used for wedding invitations and birth announcements. Pulling the card out, he saw the simple words _Thank you_ printed on the front in elegant calligraphy. Opening the card to read the message inside, he suddenly howled with laughter, making Malcolm jump.

"What?" Malcolm demanded, laughing without knowing why. "What does it say?"

Unable to speak, Trip just handed him the card.

The message was simple and brief, in Terran, but with Shran's distinctive, loopy Andorian handwriting. They'd all taken it as a great sign of respect that he had taken the trouble to learn to read, write, and speak Terran standard. It said, "From Pinkskin and the Smurf."

"I guess the captain did more than make soup," Malcolm observed. "But _what_ is a _smurf_?"

This sent Trip into another paroxysm of laughter. By the time he had mastered himself enough to speak again, one of the airport attendants had come to wave them on their way, indicating they had been parked too long in the loading and unloading zone.

"I'm sure…Mama's got some vids…at the house," he chuckled to Malcolm, who was pulling away from the curb. "I'll show you…when we get there." Carefully, he packed the expensive liquor away and set it on the floor in the back of the car. Then, as Malcolm accelerated into traffic, he muttered, "I wonder what Shran would say if he knew Smurfette was the only blonde?"

 _The End_

 _Reviews feed the Muse._


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